


Not the Hero Type

by thestarkknight



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:36:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarkknight/pseuds/thestarkknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Tony’s heard the word “hero” so many times, and he always thought of it as, well, of course I’m a hero, I’m pretty fucking great. But after the letters on his tower falls, he’s not sure what to make of the word anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Hero Type

**Author's Note:**

> First time actually writing fanfiction, instead of just imagining it. This is far from perfect, but enjoy, nonetheless (or don't, I won't mind).

Tony’s fist hits the table hard, that morning’s cold cup of coffee rattling against the metal. He curses under his breath, eyes closed, breathing harshly against the tide threatening to engulf him. He inhales sharply, hand flattening over the newspaper, over the headline. The words, written in black ink, etched into his mind, behind his eyes.

_The Avengers: Heroes of New York._

The paper crumples under his fingers.

_Heroes._

He was a hero. Wasn’t he?

_I’m just not the hero type. Clearly._

His gaze is drawn, again, to the screen. The news feed flickers against his tired eyes as he watches, but doesn’t see. He doesn’t remember when he turned it on, or when he stopped paying attention.

Tony rubs his eyes, shaking his head. _I need a drink_ , he thinks. His hands shake imperceptibly as he reaches for the bottle, and he pauses, blinking.

The bottle’s already empty.

_Huh._

The legs of the chair scrape over the cold floor as he stands, and when he staggers on his way to the bar, he remembers drinking it all, the amber liquid sliding hot down his throat, burning through his veins, clouding his head.

“Oh, right,” he murmurs aloud. Something whispers to him, telling him drinking more is not the best idea, and he listens, reaching for the chair and sinking into it.

He drops his head to his hands, elbows on his knees, and concentrates on breathing.

Shallow breaths, pain at his temples, and his mind will not shut up.

The usual equations and schematics that flicker through his frontal lobe are gone, replaced with harsh words, weighing heavily on his mind.

_You may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero._

Pretending. Is that what he’s doing? Pretending- pretending it’s all alright, that he’s a hero, that he can fix _every damn thing_.

He thought he was a hero. Saving people, privatizing world peace, flying into space to protect New York. Wasn’t that what a hero was?

_Big man in a suit of armour. Take that off, what are you?_

Tony Stark. A hero. He closes his eyes against the memories, but they flood in.

_You know that’s a one way trip._

The weight of the missile on his back, the way the gauntlets slipped and skidded as he fought to get a grip, the boost of the repulsors as he glanced off Stark Tower, the glitter of stars, the black black as the suit shut down-

_Stark, you hearing me? We have a missile headed straight for the city._

Is that what made a hero? Following orders, doing what was expected of him?

His eyes flicker open, vision blurred and tainted by alcohol and pain and confusion.

_I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one._

Frustration floods his veins as his head snaps up, eyes searching out the hall of armours, locking onto each make and model of the famous Iron Man suit, gunmetal and steel, hot-rod and fire engine red and brilliant gold and the seductive flash of silver. Vain, selfish, on display, a reminder of who he is, who he is not- a _hero_ -

Who plays the hero? Tony, or Iron Man? Iron Man, or Mr. Anthony Edward Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, the man who has five honorary doctorates from MIT hanging on his wall, the man who miniaturized an arc reactor in a cave with a box of scraps, the man who rebooted Stark Expo- the man who, the man, who-

Is that the final question? _Who?_

Tony sinks his hands into his hair, tugging and swearing.

He remembers. Coming back to the tower, after dropping, falling, plummeting, plunging towards the cold, hard earth, after waking to Hulk’s furious roar and Captain America’s blue, blue eyes, and the harsh gray dust of destruction- he remembers returning to Stark Tower, going back for the Norse God at the heart of the problem. He remembers the pang in his heart he felt as his clear chocolate gaze took in the single A where the tower once read Stark.

_And you’re all about style, aren’t you?_

Like Christmas, but with more him.

He curses under his breath, at himself, at his mistakes.

Destruction, death, decay. Empty. The single letter taunted, a reminder. The Avengers Initiative.

_Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark, not recommended_.

Iron Man, hero. Tony Stark-

Tony Stark, not.

_I think I would just cut the wire._

Pencils and paper and wrenches and bolts and unfinished projects and schematics and blueprints clatter to the floor as Tony lets his rage surge. The chair is knocked back, tables knocked askew, and he falls to his knees, head in his hands. He chokes on gasps, fights the cries of anguish threatening to rip from his throat, closes in on himself, fighting to hold together, to _not tear apart._

His hand scrabbles at the arc reactor, set in his chest, hooking his fingers around the lip of it and breathing, gasping, feeling the hot dense air rush into his lungs.

_It’s a terrible privilege._

He fights himself. A hero, a not hero, fighting against his own body, his own mind working for him, against him.

He caves.

The reactor pops out of his chest with a _snick_ , and he gasps. Waits a moment, two moments, too long. Pain lances through his body, and the arc reactor slides back into the cavity in his chest.

_Heroes._

Is that what he is? A hero? Or a coward?

Tony blinks, biting back hot tears that choke his throat.

Do cowards spend three months in a cave, building a metal suit to fight their way out? Do cowards shut down half their company after watching people die at their hands? Do cowards let their best friends run off with their unique one-of-a-kind tech? Do cowards fly towards certain death with a nuke strapped onto their back?

Or has that always been a Tony Stark thing to do?

Tony, Tony can’t- he can’t, can’t remember, can’t forget.

Boy, man, creation, hero, Avenger.

Blue eyes and red hair and burns and cuts and _pain_ and _hope_.

_Hope and heroes._

And Tony sits up, fights to his feet, the cool air of the workshop biting at the inside of his lungs as he inhales, sharply, then slowly.

“Get your head together, Stark,” he mutters at himself, thumbs pressing into his temples. He blinks, once, twice, thrice.

And Tony Stark pulls himself together, the man and his mask- not of a gold-titanium alloy, but of his own being, his own life and spirit and flesh, crafted to keep himself in and keep others out.

He inhales, he exhales. He cracks his knuckles and straightens his spine and smooths the hem of his shirt and stops digging his nails into his palms. Spares a glance around the shop, noting things to do, items to be repaired and returned, upgrades to be finished, reminds himself that tears are to remain unshed.

It hits him, slowly, like sunshine peeking through a crack in a cave wall.

Tony Stark does not remember _heroes_ , and what makes them so.

What he does remember, however, is that he is one. It is not for him to decide whether he fits the role or not. It is not for him to decide to uphold it, or to denounce it.

His job, his responsibility, is to remain. To stay. To believe and disbelieve and breathe and live and fix and break and _be_.

He takes a few steps towards the pathetic excuse for a kitchen, situated in the corner of his lab. Opens a cabinet, wraps his hand around a tumbler, fills it with ice, and tops it with water. The cold liquid slides down his throat and soothes him, cools the heat flooding through his body, settles his restless fingers.

Dummy nudges the fingers of his left hand, and he glances down at the robot. The corners of his mouth quirk up in a semblance of a smile.

He can do this. He can be Tony Stark. He can be Iron Man.

He can be a hero. (Whatever it takes.)


End file.
